


The Webs We Weave

by Nachtigall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nachtigall/pseuds/Nachtigall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never met anyone who he couldn’t figure out, but this time, it looked like he’d met his match. But there was a lot he didn’t know about the Spider, starting with age, how again had the great Sherlock Holms been bested by a 16 year old?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Someone Else's Web

“Fine!” Sherlock yelled. The dark haired man straightening abruptly from where he’d been crouching next to the body of a young man. Back arched in frustration, long pale fingers knotted in his wavy dark hair. He scanned the room around him with a flicker of anger. The walls were a dark red, covered in the attractive wall paper of a travel company house. There was no carpet, only shining, perfectly polished hard wood floor, the light brown of the wood standing out against the almost black wood that made up the bed. The coverlet was blinding white and with the wall lamp shining on it, it did seem to glow. All and all, the effect was pleasing and intimate with an air of warmth and just enough sultry colors to make the room a perfect place for an affair. However, the scene was far from pleasant.

He’d been here for 10 minutes, checking everything he could think of. Still he had no theories. Finally he’d reached his breaking point and now stood staring angrily at the body at his feet as if it was the cause of all his problems. In a way it was Sherlock admitted, but that thought was pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable, which he readily admitted he’d never understood nor cared about. The body was of a young man, blond, blue eyed, fit, and by his clothing, financially well off. The white dress shirt was perfectly tailored, and unbuttoned to the second, showing just a hint of well muscled chest. A silver chain hung loosely around his neck. The pants were jeans, expensive with an embroidered design on the left cuff. The shoes shone, Italian black leather, at least 300 dollars. The man had died with his mouth and eyes opened in what looked to be surprise, there was no obvious signs of pain. One thing annoyed Sherlock; there was no name to be found on the body and no leads with which he could produce one.

“What?” Lestrade asked, alarmed at the sudden outburst. Sherlock shook his head.

“This one is good. It’s almost like he knew I was coming, there is nothing here that I can use.” Sherlock said in a growl, his face twisted into a mask of frustration and a hint of anger.

“Well what can you tell us?” Lestrade inquired, hoping to jog the mind of his most useful detective.

“Next to nothing.” The man answered, eyes not straying from the corpse’s face.

“Tell anyway.”

“This man is young, probably late twenties to early thirties. He’s well off, but not important. His build says that he’s social, attractive and very well liked and would like to keep it that way. Judging by the showy and revealing style of clothing, he was going to or coming back from a club when he was killed. And by the look on his face, his demise was unexpected.”

“Who ever expects to die?” John pointed out.

“A valid point but those who are important enough to have enemies have a certain level of acquaintance with the thought and are not caught completely unaware by threats. Now the blatant, opened shock on his face, says two things; this man was a) not important enough to be killed, or b) killed by someone very unexpected. I’m not quite sure which one.”

“Anything else? Name, cause of death.” Lestrade asked looking up hopefully.

“This killer is experienced and very cunning. There are no traces on the body to tell me who he was, where he worked, or how he was killed. It’s the perfect crime.” Sherlock said, a touch of awe creeping into his voice as he observed the scene again. Lestrade sighed.

“John, perhaps you can be of assistance.” John walked obediently forward and set about his autopsy. Five minutes later he began to talk.

“No bodily harm, injuries, no signs of a struggle or fight. Skin is cold, clammy, pupil’s dilated, mouth dry, throat swollen slightly. Chest muscles tight. A puncture wound in the neck, looks to be made by a syringe. That must be the cause. This man was injected with something. Only tests will show what that was but it caused the gradual failure of all major body systems but did not leave a trace on the surface.” John stood up, wide eyed. He turned to Sherlock.

“What kind of person are we looking at here?”

“A genius.” Sherlock said a smirk gracing his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So new Chapter. First story on here so please give me feedback it reeeaaallly helps.

John Watson came home to a flat, literally torn apart. Boxes were tipped over, books strewn across the floor, the skull was on the ground across the room, and the wall was riddled with bullet holes. To anyone else, this scene would have screamed, break in, but to John, it was a scene created out of desperation. Sherlock had finally snapped.  
“Sherlock!” John called, waiting for the answer he knew would come in the form of a quiet disinterested voice. The silence stretched for a moment.  
“Here.” There it was. John followed the voice to the darkened quarters of the sociopathic man he lived with. A figure sat slumped forward on the bed, hands curled into the halo of wavy black hair surrounding the head of Sherlock Holms. The posture screamed stress, and the tension pooled in the broad shoulders seemed to infect the air. John approached slowly and carefully stretched a hand out to touch his friend.  
“Sherlock. Are you okay?” The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock bolted upright, staring into John’s eyes with his own burning blue ones. Behind those irises danced anger, embarrassment, frustration, more anger, helplessness. All of the emotions that the consulting detective could not or would not show on his face.  
“I’m fine.” He growled. There was a pause. “This, however is not fine. We have a serial killer here, with 4 murders, four completely different people, and no idea as to the motive or the identity of the killer. I’m supposed to be able to figure these things out, but this is beyond me. There is no connection, no clues, and no mistakes. Even Moriarty wasn’t this clean with his crime scenes.” Sherlock buried his hands in his hair again.  
“It’s okay. You said so yourself, we just have to wait for him to slip up.” John said.  
“Her.” Sherlock countered.  
“Sorry?”  
“Her. Judging by the look of surprise on the victim’s faces, it’s more logical that the murderer would be female and therefore more unexpected.” John took a moment to process this.  
“Her then. She’ll mess up and when she does, you’ll hunt her down. Like you always do.” Sherlock shook his head and sighed.  
“No John. Killers this clean don’t just mess up. If I find her, it will be because she wants me to.”  
“But you will find her Sherlock- that’s the important part.” They shared a shaky smile and John stood, pulling Sherlock from the darkened room. “Let’s go do something.” He said. Sherlock nodded, reached for his coat and the phone rang. Sighing Sherlock answered.  
“Yes.”  
“It’s Lestrade”  
“I know.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man’s unnecessary introduction. “I have caller ID.” Lestrade sighed.  
“Right. Well there’s been another killing; something’s different with this one.”  
“Oh?” Sherlock said his curiosity peaked.  
“Yeah. It’s a joint killing. A husband and a wife.” Sherlock blinked.  
“Two at once?”  
“I did say that yes?” Lestrade said good naturedly unable to resist getting a jab in at the genius. “Will you come?”  
“Of course.” Sherlock said, pulling his coat on and heading for the door, a glint in his eyes. “Maybe this time we’ll get something useful.” He said smiling. John sighed and opened the door, ready to get dragged back on the case. Sherlock hung up and hurried down the stairs.  
“So?” John prompted as they sat in the back seat of the taxi.  
“Joint murder, a couple. Maybe this is the break I needed.” Sherlock was practically vibrating with excitement. Nails drumming impatiently on his jean clad knee. John sighed, secretly happy that his friend was excited and hoping that whatever needed to happen would.  
The crime scene wasn’t interesting in the slightest. Two people found in the hallway outside the door to their flat, both lying where they fell with no order what so ever. Lestrade greeted Sherlock with a sad smile. Sherlock went straight for the bodies.  
“They were found early this morning by their land lord. Names, Mr. and Ms. Pinksburry. 36 and 34. Work in a bank.” Lestrade rattled off information in a monotone voice.  
“Doesn’t check out.” Sherlock muttered under his breath.  
“Sorry?” Lestrade crossed his fingers.  
“Not much interesting here except their rings. Silver, obviously married, happily at that, frequently removed. Why? A bank job doesn’t require the removal of wedding rings, so something else. Let me see, happily married, shiny silver, both are frequently taken off and hidden from view. So affairs yes. Both, so opened relationship. Both are dressed in some kind of leather somewhere on their bodies. Man wearing a leather jacket, spiked hair, muscle shirt. Woman, knee high leather boots, heavy makeup, revealing top. These two have been to a strip club. Together, makes no sense. Those boots are expensive. Bank jobs don’t pay well enough. Alternate form of employment. So affairs, plus leather plus expenses, these two own a strip club.” There was a long pause.  
“Okay.” Lestrade said, pausing again, to digest this new bit of information. “So how does this fit in?” Sherlock thought for a moment.  
“All the victims have been dressed in clubbing attire.” He said.”We’re looking for someone with an issue with clubbing. Someone who hates something about it enough to kill.”  
“So what now?” Sherlock sighed  
“Find out which club these two owned. See if you can find a frequent guest list; try to identify those other people.” Sherlock said, pulling his coat around his shoulders and heading out the door.  
“Of course but- HEY! Where are you going?” Lestrade called to Sherlock’s back. The tall man turned around for a moment and smirked.  
“Clubbing. John would you like to join me?” John sighed and followed his partner from the room, leaving a confused, surprised Lestrade and an angry Anderson staring at the staircase where the two had just vanished.  
“Clubbing?” Anderson spat shaking his head. “He just wants to get off.”  
“Clubbing is the logical choice. As for Sherlock getting off, I’d rather not think about that. If you wish to do so, please do it in the privacy of your own room.” Lestrade said turning his back and heading for the stairs. “Get started on that background check.” He tossed over his shoulder. Anderson stood, shaking with anger, red faced and embarrassed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment please!!


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